The stories flew out along the electromissive wires long before Ferkkisson’s official report was ready. Anton had watched the news cycle long enough to know what would happen. The stories would hit the papers. The government would have no comment because no official report had yet been received. When it did arrive, the government would be a day behind, playing catch-up as editorial writers demanded action against this new threat. Maybe they’ll build a whole fleet of airships , Anton thought. Wouldn’t the Professor have been thrilled to see that?
It would take weeks to get much in the way of military to the Anomaly; it was simply too remote. But Falk did not intend to act until after the snow was gone, Anton knew. And when he did emerge, he would find, not a small populace completely unprepared for his assault, but fully trained military armed with the same kind of modern weapons-and far more-that had just made short work of Falk’s hand-selected emissary.
If you want to set up your nasty little magical dictatorship in our world, Anton thought savagely, you’re going to have to fight for it.
But Anton didn’t intend to sit around and wait. He told Ferkkisson he would take the airship west to Wavehaven, to give the governor there an eyewitness account of everything he had seen in Evrenfels. In response to that promise, Ferkkisson spared no expense outfitting the airship for the journey. It took a few days, but at the end of it, the fuel tank was full, the engine cleaned, tuned, and freshly oiled, the burner polished, the ballast replaced, the envelope mended, frayed ropes replaced, stores loaded. Spurl’s blood had been mostly cleaned from the wicker, although a dark stain remained that Anton thought would never come out. And there were new additions, “in case of being forced down in the wilderness,” Anton had explained. A pistol, a rifle, and plenty of ammunition for both; and, at his hip, a long hunting knife with a bone handle.
On a morning whose mild air held a hint of the spring to come, Anton shook Lord Mayor Ferkkisson’s hand, waved to the crowd that had come out to see him off, posed for some final pictures, and then climbed into the gondola.
“Cast off!” he shouted to the men at the tie-down ropes, and as one, they released them. The gondola began to rise. Anton fired the burner, and lifted faster. He waved one last time to the crowd.
No doubt there was great consternation twenty minutes later when Anton fired up the propellers, seized the tiller-and steered, not west toward the distant mountains and the coast beyond, but east toward the Anomaly.
He hoped the Lord Mayor wouldn’t have an apoplectic fit, but either way, Anton was heading back to where he really wanted and needed to be:
Wherever Brenna was.
For Brenna, the journey from the Cauldron back to the Palace was as silent as before… but the silence had a different quality. Falk’s anger seemed to infuse the very air in the magecarriage. Anniska sat sunken in gloom, obviously regretting he had ever become involved, but trapped without hope of escape now. The guard sat impassively as always, but Brenna thought even his face showed more strain than before: something in the set of the jaw and the frown lines between his bushy black eyebrows.
As for herself, she had far too much time to think, far too much time to see, over and over in her mind’s eye, that horrible moment when the boy had slit his own throat, and far too much time to second-guess her decision, driven by anger and disgust, to tell Lord Falk how Mother Northwind had betrayed him.
Mother Northwind at least meant to keep her alive. Falk’s Plan, if it were to succeed, required her death. Had she committed suicide as surely as the boy by telling him the truth?
Well, if I have, she thought, at least I did so of my own free will!
It seemed cold comfort, more bravado than bravery, as she remembered Falk holding her in a tight embrace at the very edge of the platform over the Cauldron, his body pressed against her in a travesty of affection. Falk had every intention of returning her to that spot, to stand once more above the heaving lake, and next time to, she supposed, to slice her throat as wide open as that boy’s.
Maybe, she thought. But not right away. I’ve escaped him once. I can do it again.
But last time she had had Anton’s help… and now he was Falk’s twisted tool, and SkyMage-knew-where on the other side of the Barrier. It seemed doubtful he would ever return.
Mother Northwind still needs me, Brenna reminded herself. And she may not be as easy to defeat as Falk seems to think. With the two of them battling, perhaps there will be an opportunity to…
But her imagination failed her. She couldn’t plan, because she couldn’t even guess what awaited her at the Palace.
All she could do was try to remain ready, try to remain alert, try to remain…
… angry, she thought.
And with that thought, she found something to keep her occupied during the rest of the long journey back to the Palace. She sat in silence, and whenever her thoughts began sliding toward despair or self-pity, she turned them again to anger, anger at her supposed guardian, for whom she was nothing more than a vessel in which to capture the Keys, a vessel he would then smash and discard like a badly made pot to claim the Keys for himself; anger at Mother Northwind, manipulating, killing, twisting, so convinced of the righteousness of her cause that any evil she might commit could be excused; anger at King Kravon, lost in a hedonistic haze for decades, blind to the machinations going on all around him; and, finally and ultimately, anger at the Mageborn, convinced that their ability to manipulate the world through magic, an undeserved accident of birth, gave them the right to rule over and abuse the Commoners around them.
Mother Northwind is right, she thought. She’s a lying, manipulative witch, but it’s time this whole damned Kingdom was done away with, and all the MageLords and Mageborn with it.
But with that thought came one cold rivulet of doubt, cooling the fire of her fury.
In her righteous urge to punish Mother Northwind, had she ensured that the Kingdom would not only survive, but break through the Barrier and engulf the whole world?
Only two weeks ago she had been looking out of the window of her room at Falk’s manor, wishing for the coming of Springfest and lamenting the fact that nothing ever happened.
As the carriage rolled on through the silent, snow-covered prairie north of New Cabora, she wished with all her heart she was back there.
Lord Falk’s magecarriage rolled up to the Palace as the sun began to set behind the bloody shreds of clouds torn apart by a day of howling wind.
Prince Karl watched its approach from his window, staring as Lord Falk jumped down from the driver’s seat and stalked up the steps and out of sight. Another man, thin and rather sickly looking, followed, and finally Brenna emerged with one of the bulkier examples of a guard close behind. She moved slowly, almost like an old woman, as though her journey to the Cauldron had aged her beyond her years.
Does she know? he wondered. Does she know that she is the true Heir, and that I am the Magebane? Does she know everything Mother Northwind has schemed?
If so, she was the only other person beside himself who knew the truth, and it suddenly seemed very important to him to talk to her, to have someone else he could turn to. She was apparently as crucial to the success of Mother Northwind’s plan to end the rule of the MageLords as he was. Even though he had decided he shared Mother Northwind’s aims, what if Brenna did not? What if she wanted to be the new Queen, perhaps even hoped to use her position to improve life for the Commoners? What right did he have to strip away that choice and opportunity?
I’ll talk to her, he thought. I’ll talk to her now. And he turned away from the window and strode through his rooms and into the corridor, where Teran stood watch.
“I need to talk to Brenna, Falk’s ward,” he said in a low voice, though no one else was near. “She’s being taken to her quarters by a guard. I want you to relieve him and take her to the boathouse, instead. I’ll be waiting there.”